


Drabble Collection

by Kangofu_CB



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: American Airlines, Deaf Clint Barton, Drabble Collection, Freebird - Freeform, I Blame Tumblr, IronHawk - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill, Soulmates, Tumblr Prompt, WinterFalcon - Freeform, circus AU, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-05-13 08:33:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14745459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB
Summary: Starting a collection of stuff I post on Tumblr that’s too short to stand alone. May contain multiple pairings - tags, relationships, ratings, and characters will be updated as necessary.





	1. Reading the Signs (Winterhawk)

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter titles will also contain pairings so that you can easily browse for your faves, if that’s a thing you want to do.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winterhawk prompt - "Things you said with no space between us" from OriginalCeeNote

Bucky’d been learning sign language, unbeknownst to Clint. 

 

Steve knew, because Bucky had asked Steve for advice on how to go about it, and Steve had grinned as he directed him to YouTube.

 

You could learn a lot of things on YouTube.  

 

A lot of things.

 

So Bucky’d been learning sign language, and he’d been biding his time for the perfect opportunity to surprise Clint with it.  Clint, who’d been one of the only people in the tower who treated him like a person from the first, who hadn’t flinched away from his dark glares and his metal arm.  Clint, who’d made it a point to push Bucky, just a little, and who could dish out as good as he got.

 

Clint, with whom he was currently trapped in a dimly-lit alley, wedged tightly together in a corner behind a tall dumpster, while they waited on the group pursuing them to  _ hopefully _ not find them.  Clint, who was grinning up at him in the flickering light with a grin that Bucky  _ knew _ meant nothing but trouble.  It looked exactly like the same sort of look Bucky could vaguely recall seeing on Steve’s face on more than one occasion, past and present.

 

He sighed.

 

Clint squirmed.

 

Bucky pressed himself closer to the brick wall behind him, angling his body away from Clint.

 

Clint followed, still grinning.

 

Bucky glared.

 

Clint rolled his hips, and Bucky sucked in a sharp breath that was nearly silent, but Clint would’ve felt his chest move.

 

The little shit did it again, still grinning.

 

Bucky bit down on the inside of his cheeks and thought of a hundred different ways to kill the other man.

 

Clint leaned forward and tucked his - cold! - nose into the gap between Bucky’s neck, blew his warm breath over the sensitive skin beneath his ear, and Bucky couldn’t help the way his body jerked in response.  Leaning back, the blond looked up at him in surprise that morphed into… something else entirely. Something like the mischief that had been on his face, but… warmer somehow.

 

His hips rolled again, pressing into Bucky’s and he nearly groaned.  He was definitely flushed, definitely breathing harder. Bucky lifted his hands between them and Clint flinched, barely, just a tightening of his eyes and furrow of brow that Bucky noted and dismissed.  Clint knew he was pushing it and he was expecting retribution. Expecting it, but not backing down, his body still pressed to Bucky’s, still squirming in the best, worst ways.

 

Bucky had been waiting for the perfect moment to show off his new skills, waiting for the best time to show Clint what he’d learned, and here it was.

 

He tapped his left hand with his right, lifted both of them up and down, held his right hand up in a fist and pointed at Clint.

 

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise as he followed the motion, and then he was collapsing against Bucky’s chest, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

 

Bucky pushed him back again, repeating the motions as he silently mouthed the words.

 

“I will kill you.”


	2. Things You Said After You Kissed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: 14. things you said after you kissed me ---> samsteve

“I… should not have done that,” Steve breathes, and Sam can feel the ghost of it against his face, they’re still so close.

His first, immediate thought is  _what the hell?_

But, because he’s Sam Wilson and not Steve Goddamn Rogers, he doesn’t actually  _say_  the first thing that comes to mind.

“And why is that?” he says, instead, proud of the way his voice only sounds a little bit sarcastic.

He and Steve have been chasing snippets of leads and whispers of ideas from one side of the country to the other for months, living in close quarters and sharing nickel and dime hotel rooms and shitty diner food.  Sam has, frankly, been surprised that this hasn’t happened  _already_. He’s lived in close quarters with other men before, men who weren’t even queer, and frankly, any red-blooded man who even  _slightly_  leaned in that direction would have been distracted by Steve  _Goddamn_  Rogers.

So Sam has kept himself on a short leash, kept his hands and, mostly, his eyes to himself, and soldiered on.

Steve, on the other hand, has toed closer and closer to the edge with every passing day, though not the sort of edge that Sam would have thought would prompt  _this_.  More the sort of edge that Sam thought would result in Steve tearing governments, both foreign and domestic, down from the ground up.  He knows Steve needs to release some tension.  He has sort of expected the release to be more violent than… whatever this is.

Because the kiss isn’t- wasn’t- romantic.  It was hot and fierce and demanding and uncompromising, everything Sam has come to know about Steve Rogers.  But it’s not  _mean_.  It’s not violent or angry or one of a million emotions that Sam senses are close to bubbling over the surface of Steve’s calm, focused facade.

“I should have… asked, at least.”  Steve says, and Sam is positively gobsmacked.

He’d been expecting a lot of things - first on his list had been a stuttering apology and a  _lot_  of blushing, if he’s being honest - but this wasn’t even on the list.

“Consent is sexy,” he agrees, letting a smirk settle on his face.

Steve hasn’t really moved out of his personal space.  They’re still sitting on one of the motel beds, the comforter scratchy under Sam’s calves beneath the basketball shorts he’d changed into after his shower, a movie playing mindlessly on the small television set, muted with the captions on.  Sam hasn’t questioned that they’ve both propped themselves up on the headboard of one bed to watch, even though the view from both beds is essentially the same.  
He’s assumed that Steve just craves human contact.  His best friend is a brainwashed assassin, his team is splintered, the government is making a lot of worrying noises about a lot of things.

Human contact is a basic human requirement.

Maybe that’s all this is, after all.

Steve’s blue, blue eyes are boring into his, and he looks a little sheepish, and a little determined.  A little like he’s willing to risk more than Sam would have expected for this.

“So you gonna ask or what, Rogers?”

The smile on Steve’s face is slow to spread, but blinding in its intensity.

“Hey Wilson,” Steve starts, and Sam feels a matching smile growing on his own face.  “Can I kiss you?”

“Can you kiss me  _again_ ,” Sam emphasizes, and Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Yeah, Wilson, can I kiss you again?”

Sam pretends to think about it for a second, or two or three.  Just long enough to make sure Steve knows that he’s  _consenting_  to this little error in judgement.  That he’s  _allowing_  Captain fucking America to kiss him.

Maybe it’s not just about the human contact, the feeling that there’s  _someone_  there that cares about you, that you can connect with on a more than superficial level.

Maybe it’s something more than that.

“Yeah, Steve.  You can kiss me.”


	3. Things You Said After Taking Off My Clothes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: things you said [make your own] - 'after taking off my clothes' (Ironhawk)

“Goddamn, look at you,” Clint mutters, and he thinks it’s too low to hear.  

Unfortunately, he’s always had kind of a fucked up sense of how  _loud_  anything is.  Damaged ears and all that.  Even the latest and greatest Stark tech aids - tweaked to his exact specifications by none other than the man himself - can’t give him the sort of depth and range that nature had intended.

“Look at  _me_ ,” Tony says in disbelief, “more like look at  _you_.” He gestures wildly at Clint’s nearly-naked body in a sort of self-evident, all encompassing motion that makes Clint turn red from his neck to his ears.

The thing is…

The thing is that Clint is always exactly what anyone expects to find underneath the tac gear and weapons.  He’s been a carnie and an acrobat and an assassin and now a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, and he fights with a bow and arrow for both tactical and sentimental reasons.  He’s got shoulders for days and biceps he  _knows_  look good, and hard-earned muscle everywhere else.  No one has ever taken his clothes off and been disappointed.  

The disappointment usually happens in other departments.  Like of the maintaining relationships sort, or the opening his mouth and saying something stupid kind.

Tony, on the other hand.  Well.  It’s not like Clint wasn’t aware that Tony looks good.  Of course he looks  _good_.  He’s been on the red carpet with any number of starlets, been in the media spotlight for his entire fuckin’ life and cultivated a playfully sexy, devil-may-care attitude that is as casual and easy as it is attractive.

And he spars with the team - Clint knows because he spars  _with Clint_. Cap’s orders.  In fact, that’s what started this whole debacle today, Tony and Clint sparring in the gym and getting a little  _too_  into it.  So he’s seen the whip-cord muscle of his biceps and the strength in his forearms, but Tony exercises in short sleeves and pants, and he takes his clothes off for sparring exactly never, no matter how sweaty they get, so Clint is more than a little pleasantly surprised by what he finds underneath.

Beyond the biceps are hard-earned, sculpted chest muscles, surrounding the ARC reactor - which, Clint suspects, is the entire reason Tony doesn’t take his clothes off - surrounded by scars, which actually might be more of a reason, he decides in his hindbrain, as his hands reach out to trace over the fine, white lines.  Below that are taunt stomach muscles, ones that make Clint want to lick  _something_  off of them, and he’s not too fussed about what.  They aren’t Cap’s abs, but then again, no one can compete with that shit.

They’re  _Tony’s_  abs, and that’s much more appealing anyway.

“Jesus,” Clint continues, still running his hands over hot, exposed skin before flicking his hands down to unsnap Tony’s jeans and then slipping back up quickly, as though he’s going to get caught, as though Tony’s going to tell him no at any moment.  The peek of tight black underwear - boxer briefs or just briefs, Clint wonders, and can’t help the grin that curls his lips as he realizes he’s going to get to find out.  “What does your  _back_  look like?”

Tony’s laugh is surprised, and bright, and honest, and a million other things that make Clint’s heart twist up inside his chest so sharply it’s almost painful, before it ebbs away to the dull ache he’s gotten used to in the last few months.

“I can turn over, if you’d prefer,” the other man says, face still amused.  “I’m open to a variety of propositions here, Barton.”

Clint snorts his own amusement as he tugs Tony’s pants down and over his hips, and yep, boxer briefs, though they’re so brief that they’re skirting the definition a little.  And Jesus fuck, his  _thighs_.

“Maybe.  For round two,” he says, once the jeans are tossed aside and Clint’s leaning down to press his mouth to the smile on Tony’s face, itching to feel it pressed against his lips.  

“You’re feeling pretty optimistic for an old guy,” Tony says, breathless.

“Shut up Stark, you’re older than me.”

“Make me.”

Clint does.


	4. Soulmate Blind Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr trope mashup: Winterhawk soulmate and blind date, requested by Nny

“Aw, Nat, why?” Clint muttered, kicking at stones as he slowly traversed the sidewalk towards the restaurant where his best friend and personal torturer had set him up on  _yet another_  blind date.

He wasn’t quite sure, if he were being honest, if she was trying to help him, or just taking perverse amusement in his suffering. 

Clint had spent forty one perfectly serviceable years without a soulmate, his one extremely short and utterly failed marriage non-withstanding, and he was totally content to continue in that same vein for approximately forever.

Natasha, however, was not. 

For the last several months it had been one blind date after another, some more disastrous than others, as she bribed, cajoled, and downright threatened him until he capitulated, and he walked away more disappointed each time.  He’d thought, he’d been  _sure,_  that he was fine just the way he was, trash fire human that he existed to be, but Natasha was equally convinced that he was lonely.

And, well, maybe he was a little bit lonely.

But he had his friends and he had his dog and he had his Katie-Kate to mentor and he was  _trying_  to be satisfied with that.

Until Natasha took it upon herself to ‘help’.

“They don’t have to be your soulmate,” she reassured him, shoving him out the door with his leather jacket and his barely-respectable jeans.  “Plenty of people have perfectly good relationships with people who aren’t their soulmates.”

The trouble was, of course, that Clint’s pathetic, battered heart  _wanted_  his soulmate, and he’d rather be alone than constantly wondering if the guy or girl on the corner was meant to be  _his_.

If he was meant to be  _theirs_. 

Clint hadn’t ever belonged anywhere, except maybe, sort-of with the Avengers.  And even then, he felt like an imposter half the time. 

But Natasha was undeterred and Clint incapable of resisting her efforts, so here he was, heading for his favorite pizza place and someone named James.  _Red henley, baseball cap_ , she’d informed him in conjunction with the shoving, and Clint had huffed his way out of his apartment, leaving her with his dog and his space and his peace of mind. 

Totonno’s was surprisingly quiet, even though the cramped little restaurant was usually filled to bursting when Clint stopped by, but maybe that was because it was Tuesday night before a holiday.  Clint stepped out of the brisk November weather and into the warm, humid restaurant with a full-body shiver, looking around for Red-Henley-Baseball-Hat-James.

In the back corner, sitting at one of the minuscule tables with the mismatched chairs, was a lanky brunette in the promised attire and Clint had to give Natasha credit - she definitely knew his type.  

Classically tall, dark, and handsome, his hair curling under the edges of the hat nearly to his shoulders, and a sour look on his face.

James was not, apparently, any happier to be here than Clint was.  Oddly enough, the thought cheered him.  If nothing else, they could commiserate over Natasha’s endless meddling. 

Clint approached cautiously.  It would not have been the first time he’d mistaken the wrong stranger for a date, and both occasions had ended badly, including once in a back-alley brawl. “James?” he asked, when he got close enough to pull out a chair, but didn’t.

The man grimaced, and Clint took a half step backwards, ready to beat a hasty retreat.  “Bucky,” the guy muttered, reaching up to tug the cap off and run his fingers through his hair. Clint had a visceral urge to trail his fingers along the same path and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Fuckin’ Natasha is the only person besides my Ma that calls me James.  It’s Bucky.”

Grinning, Clint reached out and grabbed the nearest chair, across the table from Ja- Bucky, and held out his left hand to shake.  “I’m Clint.”

Bucky looked at Clint’s hand, his eyes flickering between Clint’s face and his fingers, pained and awkward, and Clint drooped, letting his hand sag between them. 

It happened like that sometimes.  People didn’t always want to touch, either because they were looking for a soulmate or - more often - because they  _weren’t_.  

Bucky chewed on his lower lip, still indecisive, before lifting his left hand out of his lap to waggle it at Clint and it-

 _Oh_.

It was a prosthetic, though clearly a good one, all shiny metal and shifting plates, and Clint felt instantly… something.  Bad.  Not pity, but a kind of pained sympathy, along with an immediate realization that he’d fucked up right off the bat per his usual.

Bucky watched his face sharply, the kind of look Clint recognized as someone used to bad reactions.

He knew the feeling.

“Sorry,” Clint said, dropping his hand entirely and easing into the chair he’d pulled out.  “Nat didn’t say, I wasn’t tryin’ to be rude.”

After a moment, the silence stretched between them like taffy, Bucky held out his right hand for Clint to take.  “I’m James Barnes,” he said, a little smirk settling on his face, looking more natural there than any of his previous expressions.  “But my friends call me Bucky.”

Clint grinned again, the smile crawling across his face a natural response to the glint of mischief he could see in Bucky’s eyes he thought  _yeah, this he could do_.

A friend.  Couldn’t have too many of those, right?

“Clint Barton,” he responded, and it was all well and good until Bucky’s calloused palm scraped against his own and swallowed him up in a swirl of sensation.  Warmth and acceptance, something fierce and protective, a dash of adrenaline - perfection in one handshake,

“Oh fuck,” he said, shakily, still gripping tightly to Bucky’s hand, unwilling and unable to let go.  “Nat’s gonna be so fuckin’ smug.”

Bucky threw back his head and laughed, but he didn’t let go of Clint’s hand.


	5. Freak Show

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> helmistress asked: (fanfic trope mashup) 87. Aroused By Her Voice & 18\. Circus AU with Clucky >_>

The problem, Clint figured, was that the Freak Show in the circus was legit.  It wasn’t smoke and mirrors and trickery that convinced paying customers to part with their hard-earned money. It was real - they had the usual sword swallowers and tattooed men and bearded ladies, of course, but they also had the Seal Man who was really a Selkie, and Dr. Strange, a magician who was performing real magic, and Thor who might really be a Norse God, but who was also the strongest man Clint had ever met.

And then there was Clint, who was a performer and a contortionist, a marksman who never missed, no matter whether he bent himself in half and used his toes or stood on the back of a horse and fired at targets in the crowd.  

He wasn’t part of the Freak Show, but his act followed immediately after it and the  _real_  problem, so far as he could tell, was that Tasha was the last ‘exhibit’ before he took the stage.

And Tasha was something really special - a Siren that Tony had somehow befriended, who owed him some kind of favor, and her performances left the crowds spellbound and wanting. Hungry for something more.

So Clint, with his bendy anatomy and the muscles of someone whose draw was nearly 200 pounds, usually satisfied.

Except this new stop in this new, unfamiliar town, brought a new, unfamiliar face to each and every one of Clint’s performances.  A face surrounded by soft brown hair and which watched him with piercing grey eyes and Clint- Clint figured it was the leftover lure of the Siren’s song that sent heat spiraling into his gut every time he met that clear gaze in the third row of every show. 

He figured that, right up until he ran into the guy, literally ran into him, outside the large, billowing tent, leaning against a support post with a cigarette in his hand like he’d been waiting for Clint all his life.


	6. Rude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> downwarddnaspiral asked: Trope mashup, Sam/Bucky this time, Accidental Eavesdropping / Interrupted Declaration of Love

Living with Steve and Bucky was… uncomfortable at the best of times. 

Not because they weren’t good housemates - they were.  Steve mostly picked up after himself and  _never_  touched the stove after That One Time With The Chicken, and Bucky drifted through the house like a ghost, noiseless and easily startled, cleaning up whatever Steve might have missed.  In fact, Sam might not have even known Bucky was living there if he didn’t sometimes hear the quiet murmurs of his and Steve’s voices in Steve’s room at night, or catch sight of him darting from the bathroom to his room or drifting into the kitchen for a cup of coffee with slumped shoulders and every effort made to look small and unassuming.

It hurt Sam’s chest to look at the guy, truth be told, because he was trying so damn hard.  Trying to be the guy Steve used to know, trying to be nonthreatening, trying to be unobtrusive, to not be a bother.

So it caught him by surprise when he came home early from work to hear what almost sounded like an argument drifting down the hallway from the back bedroom, the one that was unequivocally Barnes’ room.

Steve and Bucky seldom argued, at least not in Sam’s experience, and never with raised voices.

They were raised now, though Bucky sounded more exasperated than angry and Steve sounded almost amused. 

“I dunno Buck,” Steve was saying, using that goddamn aw-shucks voice that Sam knew was mostly put-on for when he wanted to be extra snarky.  “Seems like it’s not too bad a problem to have, a little crush on a good-lookin’ fella.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky said, low and sulky.  “Whadda you know about it anyway?”  There was that Brooklyn drawl, Sam thought, the one that crept out when Bucky was feeling especially comfortable or particularly heated about a subject.  It did funny things to his gut, the kind of funny things he didn’t think too hard about. 

Whatever Steve said in response was lost to Sam, being that he lacked super-hearing, but he did catch a huff of laughter.

“What am I supposed to say, huh?” Bucky exploded, now sounding aggravated and aggrieved.  “I love you, you big, dumb fuck. Huh? Is that what you wanted to hear?”

Sam took a step back towards the front door, alarmed.   _This_  was not what he expected or even wanted to hear.  He was suddenly, viscerally aware that he was invading their privacy, that they thought they were alone, and-

Steve burst into delighted laughter, derailing Sam’s thought process.

_What the fuck._

Who laughs in someone’s face when they’re confessing their feelings?  That didn’t seem like a Steve Rogers thing to do, but Sam was standing  _right here_  and that’s sure as hell what it sounded like.  

He was halfway down the hall before he realized what he was doing. 

The bedroom door was only partially open, a gap of about six inches between the edge of the door and the jam, and it was just far enough for Sam to be able to see Bucky’s shoulder and, behind it, Steve’s face, his eyes dancing with mirth and a big, stupid grin stretching from ear to ear. 

“That’s my friend you’re talking about,” Steve said mildly, “maybe don’t call him a ‘dumb fuck’.“  Sam caught the flicker of gaze over Bucky’s shoulder that meant he’d seen Sam coming down the hall, and the grin on his face only got wider.  “Maybe you oughta tell him how pretty his big, brown eyes are, or how much you like watchin’ him when he comes home all sweaty from his run.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky said again, sullen and hunched in on himself.  

“You could say that too,” Steve agreed.  “You might wanna take him on a date first though.”

Sam was through the bedroom door, ready to give Steve a real piece of his mind when the words caught up to him.  He made a strangled sound as the door swung open with his momentum and he froze in the doorway, staring at the two of them. 

It occurred to him, belatedly, that he’d misinterpreted part of their earlier conversation, and instead of coming in like an avenging angel, he now looked like a nosy asshole who was interrupting a private conversation between friends. 

Bucky whirled, his arm recalibrating as he readied himself for a fight, and then flopping at his side as he slumped at Sam’s sudden appearance.  “I hate you,” he told Steve, decisively.

Steve looked positively charmed.  “Well,” he said, standing up from where he’d been sitting on the edge of Bucky’s bed.  “I think you two have a lot to talk about, so I’ll just make myself scarce for a while.”

“Make yourself scarce for forever, Rogers,” Bucky sighed, flopping bonelessly back onto the spot Steve had vacated.

Steve practically danced out of the room, clapping Sam on the back as he went.  Sam could hear him shuffling down the hallway, and the beginnings of him whistling a jaunty tune just before the front door opened and then shut again.

“What?” Sam said, turning to stare at the empty hallway, completely mystified.

“I love you, you big, dumb fuck,” Bucky said, from underneath the pillow he’d pulled over his face.


	7. The Ghost of Christmas Goat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pre-winterhawk silliness. Crack treated seriously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clara promised me a WW3some panty fic if I wrote this, so it’s her fault. 
> 
> Inspired by the Tumblr post that was going around about the Swedish goat that gets destroyed just about every year around Christmas time. In 2005 it was apparently destroyed by archers shooting flaming arrows and I couldn’t help but think CLINT

Bucky had discovered Tumblr.

 

No one bothered to warn him about the giant time suck that was the internet, or how you could rabbit-hop down a wormhole of infinite leaps of thought that somehow ended with a Reddit thread detailing the psychotic demands of an over-the-top bride who wanted her wedding party to wear soda hats.

 

He’d had to google soda hats, and that had only increased his confusion.

 

Still, he was figuring out this modern social media shit, and he was chasing silliness on the internet, and occasionally he found good porn, so overall, Bucky felt solidly okay about his life choices.

 

And texting.

 

Man, he loved texting.

 

Steve loved texting too - he mostly loved trolling Stark with telegram-like messages, as though Steve had ever sent a telegram in his goddamn life - and Bucky enjoyed sending memes. And weird links.  And the ability to send said memes and links and, okay, the occasional necessary modern question, at all hours of the day or night with no one’s objections. 

 

He and Clint had developed a weird habit of sending each other the most ridiculous-sounding real news stories they could find.  Occasionally Natasha participated by sending tiny links with no context, often to Russian news stories, which she seemed to find a particularly funny inside joke. 

 

So when Bucky scrolled across ‘Swedish Christmas Goat Burned Down for 27th Time’ on his Tumblr dash, he was  _ sure _ he’d struck gold. Holiday-appropriate, utterly ridiculous, complete chaos, and one thousand percent true. 

 

He group texted it to Natasha and Clint before he even got through the first two paragraphs.

 

Then he screenshotted the bit about the archer and sent that along too.

 

**_2005: Burnt by unknown vandals reportedly dressed as Santa and the gingerbread man by shooting a flaming arrow at the goat at 21:00 on 3 December_ **

 

Bucky added a few laughing emojis and an archer that Stark had created just for the latest line of Stark phones.

 

_ Friends of yours? _ He asked.

 

The ellipsis that meant someone was typing started and stopped several times, long enough for Bucky to wonder if he’d actually  _ offended _ Clint, something he’d previously thought impossible. Before he could decide whether or not to apologize, Natasha sent a picture.

 

It was clearly a photo of a photo and it showed-

 

It showed her and Clint, dressed up as Santa Claus and the goddamn Gingerbread Man, arms thrown around each other and grinning like the cats that ate the canary. 

 

_ Pretty sure we’re still on the most wanted list _ .

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ClaraxBarton for the beta! She’s always good for enabling my bad decisions.


End file.
